


Fic Tac Toe: Sexy_Right Comm: Live Free Die Hard

by megyal



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: sexy_right, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-22
Updated: 2011-09-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 23:18:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>These ficlets were written for sexy_right@LJ's Fic Tac Toe challenge!</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. It never gets easy

**Author's Note:**

> These ficlets were written for sexy_right@LJ's Fic Tac Toe challenge!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 'writer's choice' square. I choose 'infidelity' as a prompt.

Farrell moves into the same brownstone as John, on the ground floor. It's purely coincidence, except where it's not; John suspects that Farrell did _something_ to get that apartment so quickly, because he's completely incorrigible. John wouldn't put it past him to fuck around someone's accounts and send them into bankruptcy.

"Hey," the kid says when John's current girlfriend opens the door. "Um, I'm your new neighbour."

"Oh yeah, we saw the moving truck. Hi, Come on in!" Sandy is such a welcoming soul, she pulls open the door with a huge smile. John, seated at the dining table with an early supper, wants to tell her to lock the door, _don't let that kid in here_ , but through a combination of completely guileless eyes, awkward shuffling and a boyish grin, Matt is inside, gazing around as if he'd never been inside the apartment before, never got fucked on the old rug in front of the television, never sucked John off in the kitchen. He allows Sandy to pull off his puffy, hooded jacket, staring at John's face all the while. John just looks back at him, saying nothing.

"I'm Sandra, and this is John," Sandy says, standing between them. She's not from New York, so John needs to remind her that she can't just let anybody in like that; then again, she probably feels safe with a cop in the house. Matt had said it all the time when they had been....sharing the apartment.

"I'm Matt," the kid answers, still looking at John intently. "I'm sorry, but I'm sure I know you."

"John McClane." Sandy laughs, delighted.

Matt snaps his fingers; mockingly, John is sure. "That's it. Wow, a real American hero. It's nice to meet you, Detective McClane."

A slight crease mars Sandy's brow. "How did you know he was a detective?"

"Yeah, kid," John finally speaks up for the first time, wanting to see him squirm. "How'd you know that?"

Farrell's smile is toothy, like a shark. "Okay. You got me." He spreads his arms wide in an aw-shucks gesture. "I'm a _huge_ McClane fan. Pictures on my wall and everything."

Sandy's frown deepens and then she burst into delighted laughter. "He gets that a lot! It's cute, really."

"Cute," John rumbles, but it's so cute he wants to strangle the kid. He wants him to leave, but he can't stop staring at that smooth dark hair, or the skin on his wrists, or the new laugh-lines on the sides of his mouth.

"So, I just came straight upstairs to introduce myself, I'm gonna go now. Really nice to meet you." Matt takes one step around and then stops. "Could you...no, I'm not going to ask. Oh man, it's stupid."

"Go on," Sandy urges. "What do you want, an autograph?" She goes off into laughter again, so cheerful that John can hardly stand it. Matt is grinning too, but the humour doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Well, apart from that." He pauses, waiting for Sandy's snickering to peter out. "The window in my living room doesn't close all the way, and it's sucking out so much heat. Got any ideas to get it shut properly?"

"I'll come look at it," John says, getting to his feet. His stomach clenches in hot anticipation; it never does this during firefights, or when he's being thrown off a building or dodging punches. He always runs cold then, not uncomfortably warm like this.

"Thanks, man," Matt says, voice soft and kind. John wants to strangle him.

"I'll bring down some juice," Sandy calls out from behind them as John closes the door. They walk down the creaking wooden steps in silence, pass the landlady's level, which smells strongly of onion and cat. John waits until Matt keys open his door, and as soon as he steps in and takes off his jacket, John grabs him.

Matt grabs him back; his window doesn't close all the way, he can't close it, yadda-yadda-yadda, and yet he's gripping John's shoulders with a grim sort of desperation; his fingers leave circles of pain.

"Your girlfriend's going to come down here real soon," Matt says, hisses it mostly and his mouth is on John's, hard and demanding. John feels a species of terror crawl up in him, because he doesn't want Sandy to see this, to _find out_. For some reason, his cock gets outrageously hard and he groans.

Matt groans with him, pressing him back against the door. It isn't locked, and that alone makes it too much. He imagines he hears Sandy's footsteps coming down the steps, feels her knock on the wood behind him and sees her face as she discovers them grinding against each other. His heart is pounding; sweat drips down his nape. His hands are shaking, fingers trembling against the bare skin of Matt's hip.

Fuck, when did Matt's shirt get pulled off?

He comes so hard it feels like it hurts.

Matt says, "That's it," and his voice is low and kind. John wants to strangle him, but he's always been weak for the kid.

He can't.

 _fin_


	2. Beneath the Surface

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scars, and unknown stories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'scar' square.

Matt walked out of the bathroom with just a thin towel wrapped around his hips, nerves jangling just as crisply as his freshly scrubbed skin; this could be The Night. Weeks of hot kissing and even hotter touches have primed him for This Night something fierce, and Matt hoped that he didn't come across too needy, but he kind of _needed_ John real badly. Right now. He had spent a lot of time in John's small bathroom, looking at his narrow face in the mirror as he'd leaned over the pedestal sink, fingers braced against cool porcelain. He'd taken a shower and his hair lay flat and damp against his skull.

"Okay," he'd whispered, and licked his lips. His eyes seemed even larger than usual in his face. "Okay, kiddo, let's go."

Now, he leaned against the jamb of the door, trying to exude _hello there, sexy_ and _you're going to have a good time tonight_ , but he probably looked more like _did I wash my ass out good enough?_

"McClane?" he tried, observing how the light from the bathroom lay in a bright wedge across the blue sheets of the bed. John was on top of them, curled on his side, clad in boxers; his muscled back moved in slow breathing that was almost hypnotic to watch. "Hey, McClane?"

He should have said _John_ , he thought with a mental cringe; he wanted to sleep with the guy, not sound as if he was going ask him to join a line. The usage of names didn't matter in a moment, since John's reply was a low snore.

Great; Matt felt his shoulders slump. He stepped inside the bedroom, reaching out to snap off the bathroom light. He'd obviously spent too much time shoring up his nerves and really, with his luck, he should have seen this one coming. When they'd been making out in the living room, John's kisses had been slow, not quite sluggish but getting there. _Tired_ , he'd said, even as his fingers had snuck under Matt's t-shirt, hands warm and calloused against the skin of Matt's waist.

 _Maybe you're too tired for..._ Matt remembered how his cheeks had felt warm when he'd said that. He also recalled the sensation of John's smile against the side of his mouth.

 _Never too tired for that, kid._

But apparently he was. Matt waited a little for his eyes to get use to the darkness of John's bedroom, and then walked over to the bed, sitting on the edge of it. John snored again, a soft, fluttery sound. Matt smiled at it. Cute. He reached out, hand hovering over John's closest leg for a breathless moment, before he let his hand float down, oh so gently, to rest on a bony ankle.

John muttered, shifted. Matt slid his hand up John's leg, awe buzzing in the pit of his stomach. Awake, John was intimidating and imposing, even when he wasn't shouting at the bad guys or making things blow up. Part of his charm, Matt had to admit. However, he was so sleepy warm under Matt's hand right now. Harmless; quiescent. Matt could do anything to him right now, and that thought made him a little dizzy.

Matt brought his hand down again, loosely gripping John's foot. He rubbed his thumb against the underside, and bit his lower lip at the sensation of raised flesh. He wondered how John had gotten them, _when_. What had he been doing to fuck up the soles of his feet this way? Matt felt the other one and yes, it was just as bad. Another life, another history that he walked on every single day, and Matt didn't know a thing about it.

Before he knew what he was doing, he had kissed John's foot, lips pressed against the sole, then the ankle. He heard a quick intake of breath and John's foot was ripped out of his grasp.

"What are you doing, kid?" John's voice was sleep-rough. He was up on his elbows, legs splayed wide. He stared down at Matt with lips pressed tight, broad chest now moving with quicker breaths. That kind of looked like flight or fight, but John didn't really do _flight_ , did he? If he didn't like what Matt was doing, he'd probably throw him through a wall.

Matt didn't give himself nor John any time to think. He crawled up between John's legs, hands everywhere, fingers exploring the multiple stories of the man: under the hair on his legs, decorating the ladder of his ribs, harsh lines under his nipples. By the time Matt got to his face, nestled wantonly against him and petting the small scar at one side of John's mouth before kissing him deeply, he felt kind of desperate: he might never know the story behind all these scars.

John groaned, hands on Matt's shoulders, sliding down his back to pull him closer. Too close; Matt felt the harsh thud of their heartbeats, the heat between their bodies, slickness between their legs.

"John," Matt whispered as he arched against him, head tipped back to give John more access to his neck. He felt a hand at his knee, caressing the skin mangled by the violent passage of a bullet.

They moved against each other, and John's fingers pressed into his scar.

 _fin_


	3. The shadows are many

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fire Sale caused a new problem and John has a new job. One victim of the illness is the one target he can never dispatch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: low blood sugar

John waited for a few moments in the hallway to his own apartment, key held in his hand between the first two fingers, ready to jab into the unprotected eye of any attacker. He listened carefully to his instincts murmur gently in the back of his mind. They were good instincts. The best, he was told by other Hunters, but John was very careful not to let shit like that get to his head.

"Gotta be careful," he muttered to himself as he shoved the key in. "You let them get in too close, they stick a knife between your ribs. Can't breathe with a knife in your lungs, right? That's what I said."

As soon as he opened the door, his instincts, the _best_ instincts, roared red in his mind. They flared in belated panic and a resigned kind of acknowledgment, tied to a quick twitch of his dick in his pants. The kid sat in the furthest armchair in his living room, the standing lamp casting a luxurious golden glow over his dark hair and pale skin. There was a small smile pulling on one side of that wide mouth, and his eyes appeared as if the pupil had devoured iris and the whites.

John grappled for the crossbow slung over his shoulder, but Matt was already upon him; he was too fast. He shouldn't have been allowed to get this fast, but he _was_. He yanked John inside and then shoved him back against the door. Matt grabbed his hand, which had already curled around the stock of the crossbow, and pinned it by the wrist against the worn wood, over John's head. John drew his gun with his free hand and Matt grabbed that too, bringing it up to join the other hand with such force that John felt something vital in his shoulder creak in complaint. He grunted in pain.

"Sorry," Matt said, and he did seem remorseful, in a kind of jocular way. "I just can't get used to my own strength nowadays."

"You'd better let me go, kid," John told him. "I'll kill you quicker, just to thank you."

Matt had the audacity to laugh right in his face. "Kill me? Like the last six times, right? Or...was it seven?" His grip on John's wrists felt as if they gentled, even though John knew he could never twist his way out of them until Matt decided let him go. He was sufficiently unsettled, therefore, when Matt abruptly released him, and stepped away. _Lift your gun, shithead, shoot him_ , he told himself fiercely. He could pull the trigger and obliterate the evidence that he just couldn't save everyone: not from the Fire Sale and not from the contagious illness which had been released in the aftermath.

He could shoot Matt in the face, and be done with it.

"Go ahead, man," the kid said, offering as if he was trying to get John to drink some of his shitty energy drinks, just like he used to. "What are you waiting for?"

"What do you want?" John shot back, because his hands felt too heavy to lift either crossbow or gun. "Spit it out, kid, or get out before I put a bullet between your eyes."

Matt lifted his hands in an expression of oddly sweet supplication and then ran them through his hair. He sighed, half-turned away and muttered, "I need to feed."

"No," John said. "You're not getting that from me anymore,", and because his body told the truth better than he told a lie, his cock twitched in his briefs again. Matt stared at his crotch for about ten seconds without comment, and then his gaze flickered up to consider John's face again.

"You're the only one," he said, quietly. "You gotta believe me, McClane. I don't drink from anyone else but you, I promise. I don't _need_ anyone else."

"You say that as if I care, kid."

"You do," Matt answered without any trace of over-confidence. It was simply a statement of fact. "I...I feel tired. Like I used to feel after a sugar high. Just. You know I won't give you the sickness. I never have."

John swallowed. He hesitated, which was always a fucking mistake, because Matt stepped close once more, head tilted and eyes opened wide with what seemed to be desire and barely restrained anticipation; they almost seemed to glow in the soft darkness here near the door. He reached out and cupped John's face in his hands, so gently; John restrained a shiver at the chill of Matt's palms.

"McClane," Matt said and leaned in to press his lips against John's. His lips were dry and cool. "John," he whispered, the name like a prayer from his mouth. He kissed John's cheek and then the side of his neck, lingering there.

"Just get it over with," John croaked.

"Hey, no, not so fast," Matt said, even though his teeth were already scraping the skin. "I want... _everything_. You smell so good."

"Look--" John started and then gritted his teeth as he felt the sharpened teeth slide in. "Fuck."

He moaned then, because the sensation of being bitten felt better than it ever did. Matt's hands roamed down his chest, slipping under his shirt and unbuckling the old, cracked belt he wore on the loops of his jeans. He rubbed the thickness of John's erection through his underwear, fingers pressing persistently over the damp cloth.

He couldn't pinpoint the moment that Matt stopped feeding. He only knew when he came just from Matt's fingers stroking him through his boxers, choking on the kid's name. He slumped forward and felt strong hands on his shoulders; he tried to bat them away as his head spun, but Matt simply hauled him over to the sofa bodily, settled him on the lumpy but soft surface, and pressed him to lie down fully.

"It'll be okay tomorrow," he heard Matt say as a blanket slid over him. "Trust me on that, McClane."

fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"The walls of my castle are cracked, the shadows are many. But come in. Feel yourself at home."_  
>  \---Carlos Villarias in the Spanish film version of "Dracula"


End file.
